If anyone wants their old folk euthanised get them over to RGH, Newport. They'll sort it for you.
In fact there's every chance they'll sort it whether you want them bumped off or not. They were pretty efficient getting rid of mine.
It's a well-worn path, I guess. Social services are swamped, there are delays in preparing care packages that lead to the old folk being held in hospital indefinitely. As time passes the old folk lose their independence, lose their mobility, their dignity, lose any resistance to viruses, and eventually lose their minds.
It's a hopeless cycle as the weeks turn into months. And almost in front of your eyes your old mum, who only went into A&E to be checked for cuts and bruises, is now a bona fide helpless bed-blocker. And you stood by and watched it happen, thinking the hospital staff were going to look after her. But they're not; not really. They're too busy, too demotivated, in some cases too dopey.
But still you're in disbelief. The doctors will discharge her soon, right? But no. Early conversations discussed "cuts and bruises" yet they now speak of "pneumonia" and "DNR". You pinch yourself. You try and apply the brakes, asking, in so many words, WTF is happening here? They lie, telling you "This is the best place for her". Complain and they'll counter with their well-practised "You can only discharge her if you guarantee you'll stay with her twenty-four-seven". Which of course you can't do. They've got her. They've got your old mum. She's doomed. And you let it come to this. Because you didn't know. You trusted them to look after her. You could have done more. But you didn't know you needed to.
And it all happens before your eyes, over a period of days that become weeks that become months.
Visiting your mum you walk past rows of beds filled with so many oldies who appear drugged; sedated. One day your mum appears drugged too. But she isn't. This is delirium. This is big. And this can't be undone.
Your mum, by now in and out of consciousness, is losing weight. You check her notes. "Refused food". Every meal this week has been declined. You try and find someone to speak to about it. There's no one. You want to scream. You decide to hang around the ward until dinner time. Someone eventually approaches her with a ham sandwich, plonks it in front of your oblivious old mum. It's left there, uneaten. "Refused food".
You glance up at the whiteboard above her bed. "VEGETARIAN" is written in red. The ham sandwich winks at you.
One day you visit accompanied by your wife. Your wife looks at the skeletal figure in bed and says "wrong room. That's not your mum". You nod your head sadly, indicating it is. Your wife starts to cry.
Eventually death comes. Your mum went in to have her cuts and bruises checked, and for an X-ray, after tripping in the street. But the very government departments put in place to help people like your old mum seem hell-bent on ensuring she never steps outside the hospital ever again. And maddeningly, somehow no one is to blame. But you blame yourself. And you never stop blaming yourself. And you want to shout from the rooftops to the sons and daughters sitting with their old mums in A&E "Don't leave your mum here for even one night". But no one is to blame.
Royal Gwent Hospital, Newport. I salute you, you absolute c***s.
